Generation's Prism
by MissFitt
Summary: Daria returns to Lawndale from her new life in Boston after recieving a mysterious letter. I don't care if you like the story or if you don't like it, but please leave a review.
1. We Are Driven

The Generation's Prism  
  
chapter one- We Are Driven.  
  
Author's Note: if you have read any of my other Daria fics, this story will probably make a lot more sense to you, but it's not necessary. the themes and established relationships in my other stories have a fairly minor role in this one, so it's no big deal.  
  
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Independant Women. It was more than an overplayed, processed arrangement of notes and lyrics to Daria. She hated the song, but those words encapsuled her life, the existence she had carved out for herself with Jane and the few others she could call friends. The older generation seemed to resent people like her, the fresh out of college, goal-oriented new generation, living a life more self-gratifying than their parents could have ever dreamed. There was more than a need to survive or to even be successful driving Daria. There was the knowledge of who she was, what she wanted, playing the most pivotal role in her life choices, and her confidence was strong enough to make her believe she deserved everything she worked to recieve, and she couldn't see any reason not to have that attitude.  
  
With that mental state, the six years since she had graduated high school had brought her here, to the thrid story condo she shared with Jane, her best friend and now lover ever since their college days. Arriving home from nine hours working as copy editor for Dark Horse, a rapidly expanding arts and literature magazine, her eyes exhausted and her brain in desperate need of relaxation as well, she quickly changed her clothes, swapping her sensible skirt, jacket and pantyhose ensemble for an extra large t-shirt and ankle socks, and plopped down on the couch in front of the television. Some things never change. It was seven o'clock, mostly news programs and old sitcoms repeated ad nauseum. Daria liked this general sense of peace, the darkened living room, with the grey light of the screen illuminating her face, reflecting off her glasses. About a month before, she had finally cast off the old dark-rimmed specs and got lighter, wire-rimmed ones, and her face was still unaccustomed to the lighter weight. Some things do seem to change.  
  
A triangle of yellow glowed from the hallway, leading into Jane's office. They had converted the second bedroom into the sanctuary Jane had always dreamed of. Jane was the creative force behind The Lost Girls, a satircal comic serial based on the Fashion Club, but warped just enough so she wouldn't have to pay them royalties. The graphic publishing company that backed the books loved her, and this was steady income, but her paintings were also beginning to turn lucrative. Her last painting sold for over fourteen hundred dollars, but that was three months ago. Daria padded quietly across the floor and entered through the open door to find Jane sitting at her drawing table, inking the last page of the latest book. She was in a similar state of dress as Daria, her thin legs stemming out of cotton boxers under a black shirt. Everything in their home was relaxed. They figured they spent enough time being presentable outside the house, no reason to keep up appearances with each other. It was a strange sort of comfort, Daria thought, being around some she trusted enough to stand in front of in basically underwear, let alone be naked with. Sexual relationships really are intense, to do all that and still carry on with daily life, looking that person in the eye. Squeezing Jane's shoulder gently from behind, she looked down at the vivid black and white pictures, given life from the Promethean fire of Jane's imagination. "Almost done?" Daria mumbled.  
  
Setting her pen down and swiveling around in her chair, Jane hugged her around the waist, kissing her neck lovingly. "Done for now. My publisher doesn't want this next one until monday. I've been working my ass off all week trying to get it done early, so I'll have the weekend free. I want you to pose for me again. I want something to show this new gallery I heard about."  
  
Daria ran her fingers through Jane's hair, sliding through the shiny tresses. She had let it grow out all through college, now it tumbled down her back, reaching just under her breasts. "I'm not so sure about posing for you anymore. There's a difference between this..." she nodded towards the various paintings of her on the wall and easils around the room, nudes of her in the bathtub, posed on the bed, and in front of the picture window in the living room, overlooking the city. "And being exposed in a gallery and possibly some pervert's living room."  
  
Through she tried, Jane couldn't suppress a little laugh. "Daria, perverts don't buy art. It's cheaper to get a porno magazine. And besides, I would never ask you to pose nude for anything that anyone else would see. I was thinking a more abstract piece, kind of a distorted version of the one of you on the bed, but you'd have a sheet to cover you. No one would even be able to tell it was you who posed for it."  
  
Daria bit her lip in contemplation, then finally smiled in resignation and nodded her head yes. "Okay, you know I'll do it. I don't know how you always get me to do these things, but I will."  
  
"What can I say? It's a gift." Jane's blue eyes shimmered with humor.While she tried to get her office in some semblance of order, Daria strolled out into the kitchen, trying to think of what to have for dinner. Neither of them cared much for cooking, as was evidenced by the many microwave dinners in the freezer and the growing dust layer on the stove.  
  
Peering into the fridge, Daria was unmoved by all the possibilties, and lifted her head to call to Jane, "Where's that flier for the new pizza place we got yesterday?"  
  
"Try that mountain of junk mail by the phone," came Jane's reply. She then added, "Speaking of which, you got a letter today from someone in Lawndale."  
  
Daria was already fumbling through the papers on the little folding table, fliers and catalouges that nearly engulfed the phone itself, when Jane emerged from her office, clutching the aforementioned letter. "I figured you'd be interested in this, so I kept it seperate. Didn't want it to get lost in the chaos here." She handed the letter to Daria, in exchange for the flier that had just been found.  
  
"Thanks," Daria took the envelope, looked at the handwritten return address and frowned in confusion. "Joan Griffin...who's that?"  
  
Jane was busy dialing the number on the flier. "Don't know. I figured you did, even though there weren't many people we both didn't know." She quickly put the phone to her ear. "Hi, can I get a large with extra cheese and..."  
  
Sha began to give the order, and Daria wandered back into the living room, flipping on the lamp in the corner and sitting in her over-stuffed reading chair. She studied the outside of the envelope carefully, looking for any clues as to who this Joan Griffin could be. The handwriting was small and dark, a little messy but quite readable. There were a few greasy smudges on it, like someone who had handled the letter had been eating at the same time, but that could have been Jane, who had a habit of bringing her snacks all over the house with her, and leaving the dirty dishes all over the place.  
  
"Is my life so boring that I have to play Sherlock Holmes when I get a letter from someone I probably just don't remember?" Daria wondered aloud. "Fuck it!"  
  
She tore open the envelope, finding a single page of robin's egg stationary, a note written in the same handwriting as that on the return address. Quickly scanning it, Daria drew in a deep breath, contemplating what this was really all about. "Okay, now it's a mystery."  
  
"What is?" Jane asked, coming out of the kitchen and sitting on the armrest of the chair, the side of her hip brushing against Daria's shoulder. "Pizza's on it's way. You're paying this time, right?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, whatever. Jane this is pretty strange. This woman says she went to high school with us, was even in a few of my classes, but I don't remember her at all." She handed the paper to Jane. "Does this ring any bells for you?"  
  
Jane held the letter, noting the quality paper and pastel color, thinking this could only have been a gift. No one buys stationary like this for themselves. Perhaps both the girls had an affinity for clues and mysteries. She read it carefully.  
  
Dear Daria,  
  
I did not mean to alarm you with this letter, but I couldn't think of a better way to get in contact with you than by doing what I do best, writing out my thoughts. I got your address from my cousin, Sandi, who knows your sister. She and I never talked much, never really got along well at all when we were growing up. Maybe people really do mature after high school. That is part of what I wanted to speak to you about. You and I both graduated from Lawndale High the same year, and although I doubt you even remember me, I remember you with perfect clarity. In some ways, you and I are quite alike, you know. I didn't have a lot of close friends either, none really, and I envied your closeness with Jane; I believe she was an artist? We both excelled scholastically (I'm not sure whether or not to congradulate you on that laughable Diane Fosse award you recieved at graduation, but your acceptance speech nonetheless was eloquent and wonderful.) The main objective I had in writing to you is unclear even to myself. I admired you for the subtle confidence you had made your own, and the ability to be social with others, and still maintain your identity. So many people sell peices of themselves for such a shallow price. If you are ever in Lawndale again, feel free to look me up, but I won't hold you to anything. I'm well aware of how much of a stranger I am to you. I am a stranger to just about everybody.  
  
-Joan Griffin  
  
Contemplating this for a moment, Jane furrowed her brow at that last line, but that wasn't what she noticed most. "A little gratuitous on the praise, but not really stalker material. She doesn't seem very threatening, even for a member of Sandi's family."  
  
Daria looked up at Jane. "What do you think I should do? Should I respond to it, since it doesn't seem like a movie of the week kind of situation?"  
  
Jane honestly didn't know, at least not yet. She couldn't think on an empty stomach. "This is one of those issues to be tackled when we have a pizza in front of us." Checking her watch, she added, "But that shouldn't be too long from now."  
  
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Will Daria get in contact with Joan? Will Jane's new painting of Daria bring in big bucks? Will the pizza arrive in thirty minutes or less? Find out in chapter 2, coming soon! 


	2. Back in Time

Chapter 2- Back in Time  
  
"Exactly what kind of mushrooms were on that pizza? I can't believe I would do something like this while in a sound state of mind." Daria pondered out loud as she drove down the interstate, passing a large green sign on the side of the road, Lawndale 50 miles. It was three weeks after she had recieved the letter, and she had kicked around the idea of getting in touch with Joan Griffin the entire time, finally deciding to call her and possibly visit when they arrived in Lawndale for her father's birthday. Jake Morgandorffer was turning fifty, and had settled down a bit in his middle age. He still provided hours of live, neurotic entertainment for Daria, so she was looking forward to seeing him again.  
  
Jane sat in the passenger seat, thumbing through the yearbook in her lap. They had gotten the idea to look Joan up in there later in the evening after finnishing the pizza and conversation session. They had felt pretty dumb because they didn't check right away, but Jane's statement that they needed pizza to solve problems was right on the money. "We didn't have mushrooms that night. This is purely your own insanity, unless the nation's black olive supply has been tainted."  
  
She came upon Joan's picture again, studying this woman who had become quite a facination recently. The girl's gaze in the picture seemed directionless, her smile forced. She wasn't unnattractive, her large hazel eyes and jet black curls falling just under her chin gave her a subtle and classic appeal. The picture was only from shoulders up, but it was clear she was quite large, fat enough to draw the attention from Lawndale High scumbags, those so shallow, it never occured to them that what they said and did was wrong, hurting another person that way. It wasn't just them either. There are assholes in every social vortex, in school and out, and they all had the common sickness of tormenting larger people. This fact didn't sit well with Jane, and it made her question her whole life up to this point. "We weren't social darlings back then, but we weren't really tormented either, were we?"  
  
Daria kept her eyes on the road, navigating through the descending darkness of dusk. "Mostly ignored, but then, we never sought much attention."  
  
"I don't think Joan did either, but I can imagine her having a really hard time of it. Now that I think on it, we had it pretty easy compared to a lot of high school experiences. We weren't bullied, or made fun of that much, and we chose to separate ourselves from others, we weren't outcast."  
  
"Yet we still look back on that time through a thin veil of nausea, how does that make sense?" Daria countered, fishing for Jane's point in all of this.  
  
Shutting the yearbook and tossing it into the back seat, Jane pretended to pick lint off the sleeve of her sweater. "Looking back, I think it was our attitude that made it so bad. Yeah, there was an overwhelming amount of people who were shallow and brainless, but they were easliy avoided, and not everyone was like that. Were we trying to maintain some sort of shallow image ourselves? The intellectually superior who looked down their noses at the rest of their peers? Were we so deep, we didn't even know we were shallow?"  
  
Uh oh. Self doubt rears its ugly head. Daria thought about this for a moment. She thought back to her sophmore year, her breif status as the resident "misery chick." She didn't understand it then, why everyone saw her as such a dark, gloomy person, but it came to dawn on her. Unconciously, she did put out a certain image, using her wit and morbidity to keep others at bay.  
  
"I wouldn't go that far, but maybe we were somewhat like that. I think everyone puts out some sort of image, but what about how others perceive it? How does that factor in?"  
  
"That's just it, Daria! The image was put out to make other people feel a certain way about us. We wanted people to think a certain way about us. We wanted them to think that we didn't care WHAT they thought! Does that seem strange to you?" Jane wasn't usually given to these kinds of thoughts, but when they popped up, they were as consuming as a forest fire, and just as damaging to her mental state.  
  
"So you think what Joan said about me in the letter was wrong? That I did lose a part of myself, my identity to the high school machine because I still tried to keep up an image, albeit an alternate one?" Daria was being sucked into this inferno, too.  
  
Jane was silent. Both of them felt like the road was tilting, their solid, stable identities sliding down into an abyss, falling off the edge of their world. They didn't speak for several minutes. This was a hard idea to digest. Daria concentrated on the road ahead of her, nightfall dying the cold, January air velvet blue. Hopefully it wouldn't snow until they returned to Boston. It was only a four hour drive, but snow and slippery roads terrified her when she drove. They were unpredictable and out of her control, and thus dangerous.  
  
After they passed the sign that read Lawndale 20 miles, Daria finally spoke again. "It's not so bad, though..."  
  
Jane had been dozing off, looking out the window at the ever- changing, blurred scenery. She snapped back to present time and place at the sound of Daria's voice. "What's not?"  
  
"Being basically the same as everyone else. Sure, we unconciously tried to be outcast, but we can't be held accountable if we didn't know what we were doing. And however we managed to get through life up to this point, we must have done something right. I'm satisfied with our life, and how we turned out. Don't see any reason not to be."  
  
Reaching over to turn the heat up in the car a little more, Jane smiled and settled back into her seat. "I think that's the most optimistic thing you've ever said."  
  
"Scary, isn't it? Before you know it, I'll be sending cheesy e-cards to people as a pastime."Joan's picture came back into her mind. "Jane, do you think Joan presented the same image?"  
  
"Perhaps, but I think she was just scared. Her life was probably filled with those vicious cycles they talk about in all those 12 step programs."  
  
"That's quite a theory to have on a stranger," Daria countered, her eyes never leaving the road, but her voice quite expressive. It wasn't much longer to Lawndale now.  
  
"I don't know, Daria. I think our little corner of paradise in Boston has buried my darker side under a shitload of designer furniture and Pier One Imports. Deep down, however, I'm still a sucker for the good old days of the metallic taste of high school angst."  
  
Daria briefly pried her hand off the steering wheel and squeezed Jane's. "All part of the image, no big deal, though."  
  
They got into Lawndale around eight-forty-five PM, the Friday before Jake's birthday. They weren't sure what to expect during their five day visit, aside from the party and it's forced reunions. Quinn had flown in from California, taking time off after the show for her winter line was finnished, and that meant the now-defunct Fashion Club was congregating around her again, feeding off Quinn's success in fashion design like they fed off her all through school. None of the others had become nearly as successful as her, in fact, they all worked as sales girls at Cashman's, living in a state of poetic justice sweeter than Manechevitz. All the old images were coming out again. Daria patiently got through the initial hugs and fussing over everyone getting together again, blocking out the shreiks and giggles of the young women around her, kissing her father and managing to get her mother's cell phone away from her ear without using a prybar to get her to be totally present for the evening. Not much had changed in the Morgendorffer residence. Before finally retiring to her old bedroom with Jane for the night, she managed to swallow the raging bile in her throat and approach Sandi to ask for Joan's number.  
  
"Gee Daria, this is getting really strange. Since when are you and Shamu such good buddies that you need each other's addresses and phone numbers?" Daria resisted the urge to twist Sandi's pinch-nostriled nose off her face.  
  
"Ever since we discovered the common interest of domestic terrorism against designer boutiques," Daria reveled in her old sarcastic ways. "Wait a second...Shamu?"  
  
Sandi sighed, exasperated as she fumbled through her purse for a pen to copy down the number from her address book. "Well, I don't know how else to describe someone of her magnitude. I have flirted with that demon myself, before Quinn saved me from fat Hell, but she's married to it! Thank God she didn't call me for your address when I had company. Here's the number," She thrust it into Daria's hand and walked off, her borderline anorexic body moving like an erector set, without suppleness or substance.  
  
Much later, after everyone had left and her parents, Quinn and Jane were all alseep, Daria lay awake in bed, staring up at her familiar old ceiling. Maybe Jane was right, Joan was scared. Daria wouldn't have blamed her for it, seeing how Sandi, a member of her own family treated her. Empiricism was Daria's cornerstone, she believed that what surrounded her made her who she was, what drove her to create a life that she wanted, to escape the idiocy and tiresome drudgery of the life she was forced into, and define a life she made for herself by her own standards. What kind of life could Joan have made for herself with such a hostile surrounding, if the rest of the Griffins were anything like Sandi. Well, she would know by tommarow.  
  
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Next chapter- We finally meet Joan! And to all you people who notice these things, I am aware that I didn't specifically answer all the questions I posed at the end of chapter one, GET OVER IT! This second chapter went through a lot of revision and those answers were left on the cutting room floor, so to speak. But if you must know, Jane hasn't finnished the painting of Daria yet, and the pizza arrived in thirty-one minutes, thus making it free. Happy now!? 


	3. Circus Tents

chapter 3- Circus Tents  
  
"Hello, is this Joan Griffin?" Daria asked politely when the female voice on the other end of the phone answered. By nine o'clock, she was out of bed, dressed and sipping coffee in her parent's kitchen. She had to call Joan as soon as she could, or she knew she would lose her nerve. Her heart thumped nervously in her chest, though she didn't quite know what was making her so edgy, Joan had invited her to look her up if she was ever in town again, so what's the problem? Maybe it was the coffee. "Yes it is," responded the pleasant voice. She may be of Sandi's gene pool, but she had a full, rich speaking voice, almost musical, nothing like Sandi's blunt sneering voice. "Who's calling?" "Um, well, this is Daria Morgendorffer. I got a letter a few weeks ago..." She wasn't sure how to continue, luckily she didn't have to, Joan jumped right in excitedly. "Oh, yes, Daria! Hello! I was wondering if you recieved that. How are you?" Joan sounded incredibly enthusiastic and, well, perky. Surprisingly, though, Daria found it comforting and, well, nice. This nearly shocked her, perkiness was usually terrifying. "I'm doing alright, I suppose. I'm in town for my father's birthday, he made it to fifty without having a complete nervous breakdown, so it's a double celebration." Joan laughed, a quick, subtle response that made Daria feel oddly at ease. The conversation continued, fumbling along at some points, only slightly akward. Daria found herself pacing the kitchen casually after a while, ignoring her parents and Quinn as they made morning appearances to grab coffee and doughnuts, then scurried back to their lives. Jane slept through all the mundane morning action upstairs. In the midst of all the normalcy, Daria spoke to someone who admired her for years yet never spoke a single word to her before today. A peephole in the fortress of suburban living was localized right in the Morgendorffer kitchen, a window to the outside, a view of a reality that wasn't as dull. It was one of those moments where Daria couldn't help but stop and think that in a million years, she would never expect this tableau to be her life. "Well, Daria, if you would like, I'd love to have you come to my house today. I'd love to officially meet you, heh," Joan sounded hopeful, and Daria didn't even have to think about the answer. "Sure, ok, I'd like to," She thought about if she had anything to do today. Her father's birthday party wasn't until seven. "I can be over this afternoon, if that's okay?" "That's fine, um, around one thirty?" "Okay, that's great. I just need your address." Daria went to the counter and got a pen and the notepad. She wrote down Joan's address. She looked at it for a moment, plotting out Lawndale in her mind, then nearly laughed out loud when she realized where Joan lived. "Do you need any directions on how to get here?" Joan asked. "No, that's okay. Actually, you're only three blocks away from me." Daria responded. "How long have you lived there?" "My whole life. It's my parents house. My father died a few years ago, my mother and I sort of keep each other company. Well, I'll see you later..." Daria thought for a moment, taking in the new information. "Yeah, later." After they said goodbyes and hung up, Daria went straight into the living room, where she knew Quinn would be having her coffee and reading french Vogue, well, looking at the pictures anyway, and lounging on the couch like a queen. "Quinn, I need to ask you something." Not looking up from the magazine, Quinn responded half-jokingly, "Yes, Daria, the new glasses are a huge improvement, but you still need a better hairstyle." She glanced up, and smiled. As much as Daria hated to admit it, Quinn had changed quite a bit in the last few years, and they had developed a more friendly, relaxed relationship, to both of their surprise. Daria ignored the comment. "Did Sandi ever mention her cousin Joan?" Quinn's smile turned into a frown quickly. "Not in any way I care to repeat, but Sandi did get your address from me a while ago, to give to Joan. I didn't know you knew her." "Well, I don't really. I don't think anyone does." "What do you mean?" Daria thought carefully before letting Quinn into this intrigue. "Have you ever met her in person? Actually spoken to her?" "No, I don't know her at all, just what Sandi told me. Why?" "Quinn, she lives three blocks away. She has for years, she went to school with us, and we never so much as saw her in person. I saw her yearbook photo, so I know she exists, but how could we not run into her all through high school?" "Are you becoming some sort of whacked-out conspiracy theorist, Daria?" Quinn eyed her sister, unsure what kind of point she was trying to make. Daria sat down on the couch beside her and shook her head. "I have no idea. I just think Joan was close to being a shut in, and really may have suffered something. I just spoke to her on the phone, and I'm going to her house later today." "So she did end up contacting you in Boston? Wow, this is kinda strange, even for your life," Quinn sounded excited. "Can I come with you? Fashion gets so mundane after a while," she tossed the thick Vogue onto the floor. Daria's eyes nearly sprung out of her head. "Did I hear you correctly?" "Daria, fashion is my carreer, and I love it, but it's not my life, not anymore. Priorities do change as one grows older, and I thought you'd be perceptive enough to know I have changed dramatically," Quinn smiled, satisfied at completely throwing her sister for a loop. "Whatever. Sure, you can come. I don't think I can go alone, and Jane would only add fuel to what I'm sure are just delusions." Just delusions. XXXXX  
  
It was one twenty-five when Daria and Quinn walked up the driveway of the boxy, two-story house, black and white with a slightly overgrown lawn, yellow tufts of dandelions spotted around the yard, and cracks in the cement of the driveway. It didn't look much in disrepair, just not very fussed over. It was the second house before the corner, and the two houses flanking it were both covered in fumagation tents, making that section of the street look like a circus, with Joan's residence caught in the middle. Daria lifted the heavy brass knocker on the door and knocked four times. The windows were covered in lace trimmed drapes, and only a small bit of light shone through, acknowleging that someone was home. Footsteps padded to the door and it swung open, answered by a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties, maybe a bit younger. This had to be Sandi's aunt, there was a definate family resemblance. She was slender and tall, with a long neck and a sour expression on her face. She looked like a sun-browned buzzard, her watery black eyes slicing into Daria with a look of what could have been taken for disapproval. "Can I help you?" she barked at them. At a complete loss, Daria gulped and nearly released an "eep," but Quinn retained her poise and plastered a smile on. "Hello, I'm Quinn, and this is Daria, we're here to see..." she had to think a moment to remember the name, "Joan." "Uh, yeah," Daria finally chimed in, finding her voice. "Oh, well, she's upstairs right now. It's not time for her to come down yet, but you can go up and see her if you like." Mrs. Griffin moved aside to let them in. She didn't follow them as they made their way upstairs, and they both felt her glare at them, felt that she didn't like them being there. When she was sure they were out of earshot, Quinn whispered to Daria, "And I thought you were a bitter taste!" Then jumped skittishly as she noticed a family photo on the wall in the upstairs hallway. They stopped a moment in front of the picture. It was one of those family portraits that come in package deals at the department stores in Lawndale mall, and looked about ten years old. Joan sat in front of her standing parents, each of them resting a hand on her shoulder awkwardly. Daria saw for the first time exactly how large Joan was. The back of the chair wasn't visable at all, behind her wide torso, and her hips and thighs nearly hung over the edges of the chair, heavy sacks of flesh like sandbags encased in black stretch pants. Her red and white striped sweater draped around her like one of the tents on the neighboring houses. "Are you sure you've never seen her around before?" Daria whispered, her voice rasping in her throat. Quinn shook her head silently. Both girls jumped when they heard Mrs. Griffin's voice calling to Joan from downstairs. "Joan! Some friends are here to see you!" "I know, Mom, I invited her!" Joan's familiar melodic voice came from the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was partially open and light drifted out into the hall. Daria walked in first, Quinn on her heels, fiddling nervously with the fringes on the cuffs of her jacket sleeves. She smiled as best she could upon entering and looked up to see Joan on the bed, reclining against what had to be seven or eight pillows propped against the wall, typing at a laptop. Her hair was much the same as it was in the yearbook photo, jet black and curly, reaching just level with her chin. It was clean and brushed, and her face was youthful and lovely, makeup done to perfection. The only difference between the real life Joan and the old photos was about a hundred and fifty pounds. She looked up from the screen and smiled, heartbreakingly beautifully, "Daria! I'm so glad you made it!" She slowly moved one leg off the bed, sliding it like a glacier under her long, floral print housedress, until her foot rested on the floor, the extra flesh at her ankle pulled around it by gravity. Her simple, fluid movement left plenty of room on the bed for both of them to sit down, and she gestured for them to do so, closing up her laptop and setting it aside on the nightstand. Quinn stayed tightlipped, and tried to avoid looking at Joan directly, while Daria was equally quiet, but looked directly into her face, all but refusing to believe there was even more to her physical being than her face, her lovely eyes, her surreal smile. It was safer to look there and not accept the image of the tragically ill woman before her. From behind her wire rimmed, glare-proof glasses, she blinked back tears as it all came together in her head. Joan was a full on shut in now, not just an outcast, not just a person who was made fun of. Something, some driving force, a power as strong as the force that drove Daria to succeed in her life drove Joan to destroy herself, to fall so far. Could it have come from the same source? The generation before? "There's four-hundred and seventy pounds of me, Daria, there must be something you could say about some part of it. The silence only hurts both of us more." But what could she possibly say?  
  
********************************************************************* Ok, i know you all must hate when chapters end with you hanging like that, but just about nobody reads my stuff anyway, so who cares, right? this isnt even about anyone reading my fic or not anymore, i'm just writing, and i dont need to explain myself any further than that. next chapter: it all comes together, i dont know how many more chapters are to come, but it will take as long as it needs to. 


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